For the last six or seven years, I’ve been learning the hard way what the fashion industry really looks like when you’re not backed by a big house, a huge budget, or a PR machine.
I’m writing this from a small kitchen table in Chorley, the same place where most of my ideas have started, because I want people to understand a few things, a few choices and what has got me through the last 6 years as an independent hobbyist to international fashion designer and, and why, it matters so much to me!!
I didn’t come into fashion as some polished creative director with a ready-made team. I came in as a model, in a show that was, frankly, an absolute abomination. False promises, chaotic organisation, stories printed with the wrong terminology, at one point it literally looked like I’d had HIV and been “cured” in the way things were worded, which was not only wrong but deeply damaging..... Honestly, It was a shit show, and it taught me two things straight away: words matter, and the way small shows treat people has consequences.
From there I aimed bigger. I moved toward London Fashion Week, which on paper is the dream. In reality, as a small independent designer, I was swallowed whole. I partnered with Sam’s Diamonds Cancer Charity, and that part was beautiful, the cause, the people, the intent, but in the wider machine of London Fashion Week, we were almost invisible.
The big designers took over the spotlight, the costs piled up, and what we actually got back from the experience was nowhere near what everyone involved had hoped or paid for. That was another lesson: scale doesn’t guarantee value.
After London Fashion Week, I tried to do things my own way. Castings, small shows, collaborations, concepts, all coming from this same kitchen table. I honestly thought I was doing things right. I thought effort and intention would be enough. But I was learning as I went, with no big team, no handbook, and no safety net. Under pressure, I made mistakes. Because I was the one coming up with the ideas, sending the emails, managing everything, those mistakes landed directly on me and, worse, they landed on the people around me who believed in what I was trying to build.
Alongside all of that, I was dealing with my own health and disabilities: HIV, hepatitis B, peripheral neuropathy that affects me day to day, losing my teeth and ending up with dentures. It’s not glamorous, it’s not easy, and it affects what I can do, how fast I can move, and how much I can physically take on.
There were days when my body simply wouldn’t cooperate, but the emails still had to be written and the decisions still had to be made.
Being an independent hobbyist and fashion designer at the same time, without a large team behind me, meant that every idea, every partnership, every casting, every event was carried on my shoulders. Sometimes I built good things. Sometimes I got it wrong. And when bigger companies or organisers lied to me, when promises fell apart or shows didn’t deliver what was sold, I ended up having to pass those disappointments down the line to models, stylists, makeup artists, and supporters who trusted me.
That’s the part that hurt the most. I became the face of problems I didn’t create, simply because I was the one standing in front of everyone.
Over time, people misunderstood my choices. They saw only the outcome, not the lack of options or the pressure behind each decision. I had moments where I could choose between two bad options, knowing that someone was going to be hurt, whatever I did. Instead of seeing the bigger picture, some people turned against me. My name was dragged, ideas were plagiarised, and circles that once felt supportive became hostile. It was brutal, but it was clarifying.
So I did the only thing that made sense: I stepped back.
For the last two years, I’ve deliberately taken myself out of the centre of things. I watched other people’s shows. I listened to what models, stylists, and makeup artists were saying after events. I paid attention to what was promised, what was delivered, and how people really felt once the lights were off and the photos were posted. I saw smaller boutique shows that looked great online but gave talent almost nothing they could actually use. I saw huge weeks, London, Paris, Milan, that felt almost impossible to reach if you didn’t have thousands of pounds, big followers, or the right connections.
And I also watched what happened to the people who copied my ideas or tried to drag my name publicly. A year later, many of them weren’t around. The shows disappeared. The noise faded. Meanwhile, I was still at this kitchen table, still designing, still thinking, and quietly piecing together everything I’d learned: my mistakes, their mistakes, the lies, the miscommunications, and the genuine creative potential that kept me interested in fashion in the first place.
Out of that process came the concept for the Two Kings Fashion Show.
Two Kings is not just “another show”. It’s a response to six-plus years of watching how the industry treats small designers and emerging talent. It’s built for models, stylists, hair stylists, makeup artists, photographers and, in the future, brands and businesses that actually want to create something fair and international. It’s about building a bridge between countries – starting with the UK and Cyprus, that doesn’t demand huge money or huge numbers just to step onto a runway.
In November 2026, that bridge becomes real. The show is hosted at the King Jason Paphos, an adults-only, sophisticated hotel in the heart of Paphos that’s built around calm, comfort and elevated Mediterranean living. Through a five-figure in-kind partnership, accommodation and hospitality for the UK creative team are fully supported, meaning a handpicked group of emerging talent can experience an international runway and resort environment without the usual pay-to-play cost.
From April through July I’ve moved between that same kitchen table in Chorley and Cyprus, meeting working with their teams, going through floor plans, seating plans, schedules, and marketing ideas. Every part of this show has been built, questioned, refined and checked. This time, it’s not just an announcement on social media; it’s something that exists in real conversations, real contracts and real planning.
Only 14 people will travel under the Kingfisher name. Around 8–9 models, plus photographers, stylists and makeup artists, will spend four nights at the King Jason, creating content, building portfolios, walking an international catwalk, and being seen properly. There will be 100–130 guests, and media interest is already in motion, with Cyprus Mail – the island’s leading English-language daily, having recently featured Kingfisher Couture’s campaign work.
I’m not pretending this show is perfect or that it solves every problem in the industry. But it does something I haven’t seen enough of: it respects emerging talent, acknowledges how hard it is to get into major fashion weeks, and actually gives people something tangible in return for their time and trust. There are no empty promises of overnight fame, no hidden fees, no pretending it’s easy. It’s honest about what it is and what it isn’t.
Looking back over these past six years, I can say this: I have messed up. I have trusted the wrong people. I have been part of abominations and shit shows and events that did not deliver what they promised and sadly In that process hurt people unintentionally because I was trying to navigate situations I didn’t fully understand. I’ve watched my own name be dragged, my ideas copied, and my health challenged. And I am genuinely glad I’ve been through it, because without those experiences I would not have had the clarity to build Two Kings the way I’m building it now.
This is the the point where everything meets: my mistakes, other people’s mistakes, what I’ve learned from watching the industry, and what I’ve heard directly from the models, creatives and supporters around me. It’s a show, yes – but it’s also an answer. An answer to the question: “What would it look like if we did this differently?”
If you’ve ever felt shut out of fashion because you didn’t have the money, the numbers or the right connections, this show is for you. If you’ve ever walked in a show and left with nothing but vague promises and a few blurry photos, this show is for you. And if you’ve ever made mistakes trying to build something creative and felt like it was the end – trust me, it doesn’t have to be.
I’m still at the same kitchen table in Chorley. I’m still independent. I’m still learning. But now I’m ready to put all of it into action – not just for me, but for the people who stand on that runway with me in Paphos.